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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
13
The
bay-sheltered
islands
and
the
great
sea
beyond
stretched
away
to
the
far
horizon
southward
and
eastward;
the
little
procession
in
the
foreground
looked
futile
and
helpless
on
the
edge
of
the
rocky
shore.
It
was
a
glorious
day
early
in
July,
with
a
clear,
high
sky;
there
were
no
clouds,
there
was
no
noise
of
the
sea.
The
song
sparrows
sang
and
sang,
as
if
with
joyous
knowledge
of
immortality,
and
contempt
for
those
who
could
so
pettily
concern
themselves
with
death.
I
stood
watching
until
the
funeral
procession
had
crept
round
a
shoulder
of
the
slope
below
and
disappeared
from
the
great
landscape
as
if
it
had
gone
into
a
cave.
An
hour
later
I
was
busy
at
my
work.
Now
and
then
a
bee
blundered
in
and
took
me
for
an
enemy;
but
there
was
a
useful
stick
upon
the
teacher's
desk,
and
I
rapped
to
call
the
bees
to
order
as
if
they
were
unruly
scholars,
or
waved
them
away
from
their
riots
over
the
ink,
which
I
had
bought
at
the
Landing
store,
and
discovered
to
be
scented
with
bergamot,
as
if
to
refresh
the
labors
of
anxious
scribes.
One
anxious
scribe
felt
very
dull
that
day;
a
sheep-bell
tinkled
near
by,
and
called
her
wandering
wits
after
it.
The
sentences
failed
to
catch
these
lovely
summer
cadences.
For
the
first
time
I
began
to
wish
for
a
companion
and
for
news
from
the
outer
world,
which
had
been,
half
unconsciously,
forgotten.
Watching
the
funeral
gave
one
a
sort
of
pain.
I
began
to
wonder
if
I
ought
not
to
have
walked
with
the
rest,
instead
of
hurrying
away
at
the
end
of
the
services.
Perhaps
the
Sunday
gown
I
had
put
on
for
the
occasion
was
making
this
disastrous
change
of
feeling,
but
I
had
now
made
myself
and
my
friends
remember
that
I
did
not
really
belong
to
Dunnet
Landing.
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